“You could use your phone.”
“I could. But I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to?”
“No,” I say, and I am nearly paralyzed by nerves. I’m barely able to breathe any more. My chest suddenly feels constricted, as if all my fears are gripping me.
He tilts his head to the side. “Why? Am I out of the running? You don’t want me to get past the first round.”
“I totally want you to get past the first round.”
“So then?”
There’s a hopeful sound to his voice, but I can’t quite form the words. I don’t know how to give voice to all the feelings that are building inside me. I don’t have to though because he inches his hand across the bar and loops his fingers through mine. As he clasps my hand in his, sparks race through my body, and I find myself leaning closer to him.
“I don’t want to date you for the cameras,” I say.
“Do you want to date me not for the cameras?” He squeezes my hand, as he holds my gaze so tight.
“Yes. I want to go out with you for you.”
His eyes light up and his flirty, happy smile matches mine. “I want to go out with you for you too, McKenna.”
That’s all it takes for that crazy torquing feeling to fade away, and for me to move in closer and trace his top lip with my index finger. “You have really pretty lips,” I say.
He laughs. “Cute blushing. Pretty lips. Are these compliments?”
“It’s me. I’m a dork. I don’t know what to say to someone I really like.”
“So you really like me?”
“I sent you that text last night, didn’t I?”
“Well, I didn’t know if it was a business text, like you couldn’t wait to see me for the contest, or if it was more.”
“That’s why you never responded?”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s why I never responded. But I couldn’t wait to see you too. You could throw the contest out the window right now and I would still want to date you. I would still want to play video games with you and fix your camera and have dinner with you. And I would still want to take you back to my house. And I would still want to take you out again the next day.”
“You would?”
“Yes. I told you I thought you were hot the very first time I met you, and then we talked and you were so much more.”
“I am?” My heart is ping ponging with happiness inside me.
“Yeah, you are. You’re tough, and you’re smart, and you’re intensely independent, and you like music, and you’re just this totally cool chick.”
“So, speaking of music, you got any music on that bad boy or are you just geeking out with your DIY podcasts?”
“I have many songs. Would you like to see?”
“Yes.”
“I have a whole playlist of cover songs,” Chris continues. He touches the menu button and scrolls through to his playlists, tapping on the one for covers. I lean in close to read the names, and he wraps his arm around my waist. It’s such a date gesture and such an unfamiliar one to me, but as his fingertips press against my hip bone, I know I could get used to this with him. I could so get used to the feel of his hands on me, from how he touched my face when we kissed by the car last weekend, to how he played my fingers in the electronics store, and to the way he’s holding me now. It borders on a possessive gesture, as if he’s saying that I’m with him.
And that is what he’s saying. Because right here, right now, I am with him. I shift closer, and he holds me tighter, and it’s getting increasingly harder to concentrate on anything but his touch.
I try though, tapping the playlist. “Killing Me Softly by the Fugees. I love that. I am telling you, that is how that song was meant to be sung.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Same goes for Physical by Jane Black. So much better than Olivia Newton-John’s version, don’t you think?”
“Hell yeah.”
“She did to that song what Aretha did to Otis Redding with Respect. ‘That girl done stole my song,’ is what he said.”
I laugh, then look at his playlist again. “Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. Love that version.”
“It’s so haunting, don’t you think?” I look at him, seeing something, a passion, a spark, in those amazing green eyes of his. “I don’t think there is a more beautiful song. I love it every time I hear it.”
I enjoy hearing him talk about music, open up a bit about what moves him. I love that he thinks Hallelujah is a beautiful song, and not just because I happen to agree. I love that he loves it because that shows he has passion, he has feeling, he can be moved by a song. I love his clothes, and I love his hair, and I love his beautiful face, and his strong hands, and the way he touches, and if this keeps up there won’t be enough room inside me for all of the feelings that I can barely contain. It’s like a waterfall, how suddenly this rush has come over me, and I want to be close to him.
But I am so scared, and I am so good at finding ways to bat those feeling aside.
“You know what I would name my band if I were in a band? Cult of the Neon Santas. So that’s what I named my wireless network.”
“Bet that gets all your rock star desires out of your system. Mine would be Pizza for Breakfast.”
“I love that name and having that on the menu,” I say, then take a drink of my grapefruit and vodka. “You want to know why I’m not a rock star, Chris?”